Editorial

I once received two FWC (Florida marine patrol) email press releases that made me think about PFDs. The first email was about Florida’s boating fatalities, which have declined. In the press release were several suggestions to prevent accidents. One was that most boating fatalities are caused by inattention and going too fast, so the suggestion was to stay alert and slow down. Another comment was to be especially careful when consuming alcoholic beverages. Sounds smart to me.

Then there was a comment that most boating fatalities are from drowning, and most of those victims knew how to swim. This was followed by the following comment: “The greatest way to ensure that you and your passengers make it home at the end of the day is to get into the habit of wearing a life jacket.”

I then received another press release on Mother’s Day. The e-mail suggested that one of the new styles of comfortable life jackets is the “perfect” Mother’s Day gift. I wasn’t too sure about that. Flowers might beat a PFD for the perfect gift. But these e-mails sparked an old thought in my head about wearing life jackets, also bringing to mind the periodic push by police and the Coast Guard to make PFD-wearing mandatory: Why do people promote something that will never happen voluntarily as the cure-all answer for boating safety? Plus—if the mandatory wearing of PFDs ever does happen, it will be about as popular as prohibition.

Personally, I have no intention of ever getting into the habit of wearing a PFD full time, and I would guess that about 99 percent of the people I know who have spent time on boats would agree with me (taking children out of this discussion)—although there are situations that I could be in that I would wear them 100 percent of the time. I can think of several right offhand: alone in high winds and rough seas; sailing with others at night in rough seas; leaving the cockpit on a boat deck at night in any conditions. I could go on, but the point is clear: I would advise people that the first thing for getting back to a dock alive and safely is goodjudgment gained from experience and boating knowledge. Good judgment tells me when to wear a PFD. Are there risks in not wearing one? Of course. So what?

I have a 17-foot center console powerboat that I will often take out alone. On a beautiful day in calm seas, I won’t even consider wearing a PFD. When I go faster than idle, whether it is calm or not, I will automatically put the strap around my wrist that kills the engine if I leave the helm. If it is rough, I will put on a PFD. But there is not a chance in hell that I will wear one in calm, beautiful conditions. Anyone who thinks that, I will unequivocally and unapologetically declare that they are out of their minds or from another planet. So why promote it?

Good judgment also tells me when someone on my boat must wear a PFD. When I get passengers on board who are strangers, I will first ask them if they are comfortable being on a boat and around the water and if they can swim. If they are not afraid of the water, then half the battle is won. If they are afraid, then I talk to them about being on the boat and PFDs. Everyone gets instruction on where the PFDs are. Of course, there are people who should wear a PFD all the time. Good judgment will find those.

So why promote the use of PFDs full time as the answer for all boating safety? It doesn’t exactly make one look reasonable. Yes—Coast Guard personnel wear PFDs full time on the water, but they are in the military and working. We are out there recreating. Do Coast Guard personnel wear PFDs when they are on the water with their friends and family while off-duty or after they are out of the service? How about the FWC police and other water police?

Do we want to promote good judgment or do we want to promote: “Wear your PFD all the time”? Will the latter create a mentality where everything will be okay if you have a PFD on?

When we promote good judgment, then we promote the belief that people can learn to make good judgments; when we promote blanket actions, then we promote the belief that people can’t learn to make good judgments. (Yes, I know. Some can’t. Those people should wear PFDs.)

How’s that saying go?

Success comes from good judgment. Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.

Will the next America’s Cup boat be a foiling monohull? There have been rumblings for years about the desire to return the Cup racing to a more traditional monohull race with big crews and close-quarters competition between the boats, as they try to squeeze out another half knot. Yet others prefer the cutting-edge developments that ushered in the foiling cats that go 40-plus knots. In recent weeks, I’ve discussed the issue with some people who tend to want the traditional race, while others want the continued excitement of the fast foiling cats. In November, team New Zealand revealed what they want: foiling monohulls. For some, this isn’t what they were hoping for. For others, it’s just what they were hoping for: Something new and unusual.

But this conflict is nothing new. In fact, it’s one of the oldest conflicts man has known: Keep the traditional, but let’s have change and something new. Thomas Friedman wrote about it in his book The Lexus and the Olive Tree (the best book I ever read on globalism). You can guess which is the traditional and which is the new. And the two urges are probably in every one of us, with some leaning one way or the other—sometimes leaning too far.

It probably started with the wing keel that the Australians brought to the scene when they won the Cup in 1983, taking it away from the U.S. for the first time. The Australians knew they pulled a fast one by essentially “sneaking” the new design into the race, but the American defenders had been playing with the rules and shifting them in their favor for about 100 years. The Aussies just beat them at their own game. But from then on in, the designs have changed and evolved until we are next considering a foiling monohull.

Still, others don’t like the commercialism that has turned the cup into a spectator sport, with thousands going to Bermuda to watch the races and millions watching them on TV. But we wouldn’t even be talking about the races if it wasn’t for this new “commercialism” on these flying cats that sail on the edge of danger.

It’s no different from many of the sailors out there who want a traditional-looking schooner with big overhangs and classic lines, while at the same time having the most modern electronic navigation, communication and steering equipment they can afford on board. Paraphrasing Friedman’s book, it’s the schooner and the foiling cat.

My first exposure to the ICW was in 1979 when I first came to Florida to buy a sailboat. I knew just about nothing about it, as I had spent most of my life in California (although I am a native Southerner, born in North Carolina). I sailed the waters of Lake Worth, FL, and the Bahamas for nine months before I went through my first bridge cruising on the ICW, as there were no bridges from the marina I was at in Palm Beach out to the waters of the Atlantic via Lake Worth Inlet.

When Hurricane David threatened the southeast coast of Florida in September, 1979, I had to move my 26-foot Folk Boat, Trifid, from West Palm Beach to Manatee Pocket, a hurricane hole in Stuart, about 35 miles north. Trifid was a bare bones boat, not even having a VHF onboard. I, therefore, had to use the horn when I came up to the bridges to get them to open. I thought that was normal. This was also the days before cell phones (hey…it was a simpler time), so, in order to stay in contact with my girlfriend, she would drive ahead in our car and walk over the next bridge till I got there. We would shout at each other or give hand signals to communicate, in case problems arose. If I didn’t show up, she knew I was somewhere between that bridge and the last one. We had no problems, but it was my first real experience with the ICW, and the scenery was always beautiful. Ever since then, I’d always wanted to take a long trip on the ICW someday. (By the way, the boat survived the storm with almost no injuries.)

That chance came up over 20 years later. I had bought an Ericson 38 in Oriental, NC, and wanted to move it south to Florida. (This boat had a VHF, among other amenities, and we had cell phones.) Two friends accompanied me on the first leg of that journey from Oriental, NC, to Charleston, SC, in December 2001. We made it a leisurely trip, taking eight days, stopping early each day (although we departed regularly at dawn) to visit a marina, see the local communities, visit bars, restaurants and other attractions. We all brought books with us, expecting to have a lot of leisure time when we could read as we motored down the ICW.

After eight days, not one of us opened one page to read anything. We spent the entire time on deck in awe of the adventure we were experiencing going down this beautiful waterway, constantly seeing new terrain and new sights. No one even wanted to go below for fear of missing something to be seen while on deck. I did the final three legs, accompanied by other friends, in Spring 2002. Books were never opened on those trips either.

Over the years, I have become more interested in boat waste and how it affects the waters we sail and swim in, although for years, I have known how non-point source pollution (pollution that you cannot pinpoint its exact origin) and sewage overflows have been spoiling ocean waters and causing beach closings for decades. In the ’90s, I had a boat in San Diego, CA, and was aware of frequent sewage overflows by the county into the ocean. On top of this was the enormous impact that water runoff had on ocean water quality after a rain. The county of San Diego has a standing advisory to “avoid contact with ocean and bay waters for a period of 3 days…” after more than 0.2 inches of rain falls.

With all the claims by waterfront landowners that anchored boats are polluting their waters by dumping human waste, I became interested in what causes beach closings in Florida—besides the red tide. After very little investigation, it appears that many beach closings are caused by legal public sewage overflows. With all the controversy about liveaboards in upper Tampa Bay, it turns out that no beach closings have ever been attributed to boaters’ waste there. They have been the fault of sewage overflows in Hillsborough County and water runoff after heavy rains. In August 2003, a main broke on Davis Islands and dumped two-million gallons of raw sewage into Hillsborough Bay. That’s a lot of holding tanks.

I began to look into the reporting of sewage overflows by public utilities—and found they don’t make this information easily accessible. I read a recent report by the Clean Water Fund, which was an update of a 2005 report the Fund did on sewage overflow and its reporting in Florida. They found the reporting was pretty much non-existent and difficult to access by the public. They made recommendations. The 2006 update found nothing had changed much.

How much raw sewage is Florida dumping into our waters? The original report focused on all Florida counties in 2004 and found that over 55.8-million gallons of sewage were dumped. The 2006 report did not examine all the counties, but did a sampling and estimated between 44.6 and 50.3 million gallons of sewage were dumped in 2005. But these figures were very difficult to obtain. This is partly because approximately 2000 of the 2700-plus treatment plants are privately run and the sampling was only taken from the public facilities, as obtaining overflow data from private companies is difficult. Although the law states that all overflows must be reported by phone (you read it right), there is no enforcement of this requirement. Therefore, data is very limited.

One thing is for sure: Fifty-million gallons of raw sewage dumped into our waters is too much. This along with polluted nutrient runoff from rains is destroying our waters. Beach closings have increased in Florida in the last year, not decreased. And this is not just from red tide. Most beach closings are from these sewage overflows (which are legal), nutrient runoff, and—particularly in the Florida Keys—leaking septic tanks and old cesspools. Although waterfront landowners constantly claim cruisers anchored off their properties are dumping sewage in their waters, it is the landowners—along with all the rest of us who live on land and on the water—who are allowing millions of gallons of sewage to be dumped into our waters—and legally. We need to put a stop to it. With all the current growth and lack of funding for improved treatment facilities, the problem will only get worse before it gets better.

Let’s not get to the point where we have standing advisories against swimming after every rain. I’d hate to see the day when a crew overboard wants to get back on board quickly because the water was unsafe.

I started thinking about my first time in a boatyard—my most memorable one. It wasn’t really burnout, but it sure was an eye-opener. Perhaps that’s because it was my first boat, a 26-foot wooden Folkboat. It was in 1979 at Cracker Boy Boat Works in Riviera Beach, FL. I was living onboard and hauled the boat for a coat of paint on the bottom and in the cockpit.

This was in the days when you could do your own bottom paint. The only painting I had done up to that point was very limited house painting, using water-based paints. I knew enough about painting to be dangerous. What I knew about boat painting was even less.

My first shock was when I saw the price for a gallon of paint. If I recall, it was about $40 a gallon (cheap compared to today). I thought, “What’s in this stuff, gold?” At that time, the only paint I’d ever bought was $5-$6/gallon for some house paint. The quart I bought for the cockpit was not that much, but it was enough. The learning had started.

Next, I had to apply this stuff, so I bought some good brushes. Since both paints were oil-based, I had to get some thinner for clean-up and brush cleaning. Painting the bottom was uneventful and pretty easy—as I watched the dollars stick to the hull—but it was the cockpit painting where I really learned my lesson. There was some unfinished teak trim around the cockpit that I had to mask off to have a clean edge with the white cockpit paint. I was going to do two coats. I did one coat, with no hitches. But it rained that night. It was long enough after the first coat was put on that it was no problem, but it rained a bit the next day, so I had to wait a bit longer.

After it dried, on the third day, I put on the second coat. After that dried, I proceeded to remove the masking tape. What I should say is: I tried to remove the masking tape. I didn’t realize that masking tape—the traditional white tape—doesn’t come off so easy when it gets wet, and the longer it’s on after being wet the harder it sticks. You end up pulling—and scraping—off the tape in a thousand little pieces. It took me hours—perhaps it was a day. Now I know to take it off immediately if it threatens rain, and in Florida, with the humidity, one rainless night can be enough to make it wet enough to be a problem. Today, we all use blue tape to prevent that problem. Since those days, I have become somewhat of an expert on painting and have come a long ways from that eventful day.

I learned another lesson at Cracker Boy. I became frustrated with getting the brushes cleaned, since the paint was oil-based and I was used to water-based paints. Frustrated, I just threw those expensive brushes away. The trash can was near my boat. One day, I saw this guy look in the trash can. He picks up the two brushes I had thrown in there. He checks them out and walks away with them. Hmmm. From then on in, I was determined to learn how to clean brushes. I eventually learned how to clean stiff brushes (with lacquer thinner). Today, I am proficient at buying good brushes, keeping them clean, and holding onto them for years.

I once wrote about an experience I had on the Intracoastal Waterway. I had someone recently mention it in conversation, and they called this waterway, the “Intercoastal” Waterway. Which is it? Let’s settle this once and for all, and maybe we can increase sailors’ knowledge of our waters by a couple of notches.

In the last few years, I have had many people send me scores of articles mentioning the “ICW” (until this discussion is over, we will call it that) by its longer name. I would say about half call it the “Intercoastal,” and the other half label it the “Intracoastal.” Most people who send me articles and letters are pretty intelligent, but intelligence has nothing to do with whether they call it one or the other. Ignorance certainly does. I can tell you right now: The ICW as we know it, which runs down the East Coast of the United States, around Florida and along the Gulf Coast to Texas, is officially the Intracoastal Waterway (we can get more technical about the Gulf ICW and the Atlantic ICW, but another day). This is labeled as such whether it is misnamed and misspelled or not. Its official name includes the word “Intracoastal.” Period. End of Discussion.

Except—I did a Google search on it, as I wanted to know how it got named that way. This is all because, way back in my high school civics classes, I remember learning about the U.S. Constitution and that the federal government has power over interstate commerce, meaning commerce between the states, and the states had power over intrastate commerce, meaning commerce within a state (this is also consistent with interstate versus intrastate highways). In my Google search, I found some discussion out there about the two spellings and what they mean, but no one mentioned the Constitution/commerce situation or the highway situation. The search didn’t come up with much, and I believe I have the correct interpretation.

I have therefore come up with this theory and reasoning: The Intracoastal Waterway, by all rights and definitions, should technically—to be correct by the use of the prefixes inter and intra—should be named the “Intercoastal” Waterway, as it is just like an interstate highway, being used to travel between and among the states. It would be proper to call a waterway, like the Okeechobee Canal that crosses the state of Florida—and provides travel within the state—an intracoastal waterway.

But the name of the ICW is the Intracoastal Waterway for one simple reason: BECAUSETHATISITSOFFICIALNAME. Maybe in the beginning, someone labeled it the “Intracoastal” because it was providing travel within one state, and it just evolved to its present name, but it is today, officially named the Intracoastal Waterway.

So writers, sailors, boaters, philosophers and others who have been labeling it wrong over the years: You learn something new every day.

SOUTHWINDS once received a letter about Garmin and its electronic charts. It made me think about how the world of navigation on the seas has changed over the years. I think electronic charts and chartplotters all interconnected with GPS are some of the greatest things to come along. Why? Besides all the obvious reasons of convenience, it’s because just about everything to do with navigation is interesting to me. To be able to be in the middle of a sea out of sight of land and move across it or about it and get to where you want is an intriguing challenge that’s both suspenseful and interesting. To have all this mapped out on a little box in front of you adds to that intrigue.

There’s something about dead reckoning that I like even more.

The first time I made a crossing out of sight of land as captain was crossing the Gulf Stream from Miami to the Bahamas in a wooden 27-foot sloop. I had a compass, chart, knotmeter, watch and the traditional chart tools—nothing else to help me along besides what I knew, which was an essential part of it all (and no motor, by the way). It was dead reckoning. Plus it was nighttime—adding to the mystery and suspense of it all. We ran out of wind halfway across the Stream, which really threw us for a loop. But I had a pilot chart, which showed that the Gulf Stream was moving north that month (May) at about 2.5 knots.

As we made the crossing, I had plotted our position since our departure in the early evening every hour where I assumed we were, by creating vectors from what I knew about the wind, the current, our direction, speed and time. After the wind died to pure doldrums, we ended up drifting north for about eight hours, with our dinghy and its 2-hp outboard rafted to the boat helping us—barely—move east out of the main part of the Gulf Stream. We ended up eight hours later almost exactly where I had plotted us. As land approached in late morning, we were able to confirm our position. It was like a miracle.

I’ve never forgotten that night—and many others—as I cruised around the Bahamas for three months with just those same navigation tools and knowledge. Today, I often feel like making a passage out of sight of any landmarks with just those same tools guiding me. I would carry a GPS with me but not turn it on until we reached our goal. I just don’t know if I could do it. I don’t mean if I could succeed in getting to where I wanted on a one-day trip like the Gulf Stream crossing. I am sure I could. I just don’t know if I would have the strength to not turn the GPS on.

However, there is something about dead reckoning. It’s just not quite dead. Not in me anyway.

Although mooring fields have been around in Florida for decades, most of them today have been created since 2000. They are a relatively new idea in Florida. Anchorages, as we all know, have been around wherever there’s water for a few thousand years. But they, and mooring fields, sure create a lot of controversy.

In St. Augustine, in 2008, they cut back the number of moorings from 369 to 227. In one of the two fields planned, residents complained that it would still be too big and would look like a “parking lot” (unpaved, of course). The city responded that if they cut it back any farther, there would be a lot of boats anchored in the same area, reminding many that communities cannot regulate anchoring outside of mooring fields. So you might as well have a mooring field you can control. Some of these waterfront property owners, thinking the water is theirs, don’t want to seeany boats in front of their homes.

This is typical of what is going on, but it is really the same old story. Waterfront property owners want to control the water in front of their homes. They complain that there are lots of boaters, and they all pollute and make noise (ignoring the fact that waterfront property owners are a much larger source of water pollution than boaters). These landowners just don’t want them there. They forget: They did not buy those waters.

From the boaters’ side, they don’t want mooring fields. They want to still anchor, because many have been doing so for years—for free. Why should they have to start paying now? Next, the communities want to charge them to come ashore—something else they have been doing for free for years. CHARGE MONEY TO COME ASHORE? There’s a new concept.

We boaters might as well accept the fact that mooring fields are here to stay and be thankful that the courts are on our side. What we need to fight for is to hold onto these rights (because the landowners want them) and also to make sure we get good fields with good services. What we must do is fight for good reasonable services—at reasonable prices. Cruisers visit towns just like other people. They just come in boats, but towns want to charge boaters for every step. Charge for mooring, charge for bringing the dinghy in, charge for going to the bathroom. Run it like a “business” (the new fad word in “modern” government).

In another news piece in “Our Waterways,” we report that Plantation Key Yacht Harbor wants to run their marina like a business. Why do they think that way? Do we run the cars that come through our towns as a business? If we did, there would be a toll gate at every town entry, and a toll would be charged for the cars’ pollution, noise, pavement, paving, curbs, maintenance, stop lights, signs, police road patrols, etc. I say let them park on the edge of town and walk in—or rent them an electric cart (call it a “land dinghy”). How much money would towns make, er—save, that way? How much quieter would towns be? How many drunk drivers would we have? How much healthier would people be walking everywhere? How much green space would towns have?

We have over 100 boatowner’s boat reviews on our website that are compilation of reviews printed in SOUTHWINDS over the years. One is on a Westerly Centaur 26—and I have to admit, I am impressed with this couple and their boat. Here is how boat owner Jack Mooney begins his boat review:

“Many readers of SOUTHWINDS are cruising wanna-bees, who can’t see their way clear to spend tons of money for a “cruisable” boat. Then, there are others, like Sandy and I, who are willing to make compromises that allow us to enjoy the cruising life on a limited budget.”

This boat review brought me back to the late ’60s and early ’70s, when I first started reading about cruisers, I remember the average boat length chosen for long-distance cruising was in the low 30s—meaning 30- to 35-feet long. World-famous cruisers and authors Eric and Susan Hiscock sailed their 30-footer, Wanderer III, around the world in 1952. They eventually moved up to a 47-footer when they could afford it, but they thought the boat too big.

I also remember that Lyn and Larry Pardey cruised extensively on their 24-footer for many years, eventually moving up nine years later to a boat barely under 30 feet.

This is to name only two of the many early cruisers in those days who sailed small boats, and most chose that length so they could get out on the water sooner rather than later. Later meaning when they had a lot more money and could afford a bigger boat. But small boats also have lots of other advantages. Compare cleaning a 30-foot sailboat compared to a 40-footer. It’s two to three times the work—a geometric increase in time for just 10 more feet. The cost of maintenance makes a similar jump. There’s also sailing and motoring advantages. Sail or motor a 30-footer into a dock and then try it with a 40-footer. Big difference. But the one that bugs me the most is the idea of scrubbing the decks on your hands and knees on a 40-foot boat—unless you are wealthy and can hire someone else to do it.

This holds true for day sailing or cruising. How do you want to spend your spare time while anchored in the Bahamas, diving for lobster or maintenance?

In today’s economy—and in recent years—we see middle-class Americans getting squeezed out of the cruising market, with everyone always thinking of larger boats. Maybe it’s time to rethink this bigger boat issue and get out on the water. The biggest boat I ever owned was a 38-footer, although I have chartered boats up to 44 feet (which was fun with all that room for two couples), but the most fun boat I ever owned was the good ’ol Catalina 30—small, manageable and roomy. Not an ocean cruiser, but a great fun boat for short trips, day sailing, etc. Quick to clean, too.

Many will say, as they get older, that they like that extra size and comfort. You’ll have to read Jack’s boat review to see how he looks at the age issue. Go to the “Sailboat Reviews” page on our website to read Jack’s review, or go to the article in the issue online.

It is early August as I write this. I consider August the beginning of the Atlantic Hurricane season, although technically, it runs from June 1 through Nov. 30. If you know how pilot charts show when the strong hurricanes hit, you will understand this. I call August the beginning, because traditionally, there are no big storms before August. Tropical storms will develop, maybe even a Category 1 or 2, but the big storms—what they call “major storms”—develop in August through mid-October. The height of the season is said to be around September 10-11, about mid-point of this more active storm period. Major storms never really have developed after mid-October, although times could be changing.

Pilot Charts Show Past Hurricane Tracks

When I first came to Florida in the winter of 1979, I really knew nothing about hurricanes, being from the West. I had purchased a 26-foot Folkboat that I was living on in a small marina in Palm Beach (yes—Palm Beach, town of the rich and famous, although most of us at the Royal Poinciana docks were lowly liveaboards). I was planning to cruise the Bahamas during the summer. Knowing little about hurricanes, I figured I better learn something about them, and my studies led me to Pilot Charts. They were expensive to me (I can’t remember the cost). But they were so intriguing, I bought a set anyway (since I consider them bordering on sacred, I still have them to this day).

The North Atlantic Pilot Chart (click to see enlarged image) for January

Pilot Charts cover five regions of the world’s oceans. The one of concern to our region is the North Atlantic, which goes as far south as the northeast coast of South America. Since Pilot Charts are concerned with sailing conditions, there is a chart for each month. For the North Atlantic, there is a separate chart for the northern North Atlantic (Labrador and north), the central North Atlantic (south to Guyana), and a chart showing, in a larger scale than the central chart, the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea.

Pilot Charts Show the Winds and Currents

On each Pilot Chart are Windroses of prevailing winds, currents (both direction and strength) and storms for the month covered. Other monthly information is given, depending on the location and month, like wave heights, water clarity, surface pressure, air temperatures, ice limits, visibility and gales. See the Wind Roses, taken monthly from Pilot Charts, on our monthly weather page in each issue of SOUTHWINDS.

The main feature that first sparked my interest was the tropical storm tracking. The map of the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico shows major storm tracks going back to the early 1900s. They even have a small map of the region showing probabilities that there would be a tropical storm in different zones of a grid.

Pilot Chart of the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico (click to see enlarged image) for January

The tracks of major hurricanes shows where storms became hurricanes and where they went. The differences for each month are informative. For example, in September—height of the storm season—they were all born southeast of the Gulf, around 20 degrees latitude and moved in a clockwise curve moving into the southeast states. If you look at the November chart, there are no tracks of severe storms and the probability of any tropical storm is low. Same for June and July. The busiest months are always August and September, and some in October, but history shows that the major storms happen only in early October.

Where Pilot Charts Came From

The hurricane information is interesting, but the amount of data collected on prevailing winds, currents, air temperatures and pressure is monumental. Not so much today, since we have weather buoys, weather balloons and data collection today that is live and connected to data centers electronically. But before this modern age, ships collected this data at sea, by entries into the ship’s log and onto charts. It was first compiled, manually, in an organized system by Lieut. Matthew F. Maury, U.S. Navy, who studied thousands of ships’ logs and charts in the mid 1800s to make the information available to ships at sea. He is considered the father of modern oceanography and naval meteorology and one of the main results of his work is the Pilot Charts.

Where to Get Pilot Charts

Today, you can still purchase pilot charts in print form, but you can download them for free as PDFs at www.offshoreblue.com. Click on “Navigation,” then “World Pilot Charts.” The charts in this article link to hi-res images of the downloaded charts for the month of January.

This post was originally printed as an editorial in the September 2006 issue of SOUTHWINDS. It has been edited for this online version.